Where Nobody Knows Your Name
by Closet Scribbler
Summary: Set not long after the end of S7. My take on what might happen in S8.
1. Chapter 1

**Where Nobody Knows Your Name.**

**By Closet Scribbler.**

**Vienna**.

The welcome glow of warmth from the small street cafe lures her inside away from the bitterness of the cold that has seeped into her bones as she had wandered aimlessly through the city. She catches a glimpse of her watch, as she settles at a small table, and is surprised by how much of the day had passed already although, when she thinks about it, she shouldn't really be surprised at all. She had lost herself in the city, quite literally, and then immersed herself in all it had to offer; the architecture, the culture and the history which ties it all together. She feels she was right to come here. The beauty and the majesty of the city gives her a new purpose, a new city to learn; a new pretend life to lead.

She orders coffee in an impressive Austrian accent and feels a flicker of unease at how easy it has become for her to blend in. There have been times, long days and dark, restless nights when she has felt she would never, _could _never, be anyone other than Ruth, but, slowly, and not without some difficulty, she has managed to leave Ruth behind. She has shed most, if not all, of the things that made her so uniquely Ruth and the things that refuse to leave her have been locked away and pushed inside the furthest recesses of her mind and heart. Nowadays she is anyone she wants to be, for however long it suits her. In Vienna she is Sofia.

She gives a small, perfunctory smile as the waitress brings her coffee and then waits until she is alone again before reaching for her battered looking handbag. Years ago she would have thrilled in slipping a guide book out of her bag and would have spent her time in the nameless, yet charming, cafe pouring over the pages of it. Not anymore. These days she allows herself the freedom to roam the streets, to really drink in the sights and smells and sounds of the _real_ city. This part of her nomadic lifestyle is a small salute to a man she once knew who told her that the only way to really get to know a place was to become lost in it. A ghost of a smile flickers across her lips at the memory before she pushes it away and instead of lingering on the past she pulls out an equally battered looking leather bound notebook from her handbag. Her fingers lazily flick through the already full pages until she reaches a fresh, empty one. She pauses a moment and then takes her pen and scribbles out her first thoughts of Vienna.

---

It is much later in the day when she finally returns to the apartment she has arranged to rent. Yesterday she signed a tenancy agreement and paid the agreeable landlord three months rent in advance. She doubts she will be staying that long in one place; lingering longer than 6 weeks in one location is a rarity these days. Ruth would have hated the uncertainty of the life she now leads, she would have longed for stability and would have eventually driven herself mad pining for the life she once had. That's why she's Sofia now, and why she was Marie before that and Adele before that.

_It's safer this way_, she thinks.

Not that she's in danger. She isn't constantly on the move because some malevolent force is pursuing her, it is her own restlessness that forces her on; nothing more. She no longer has anything or _anyone _to anchor her existence to and as soon as she begins to imagine how Harry might like a certain building or she starts searching faces in the crowd for the face that she knows can never be there she packs up and moves on. She's long since accepted that this is the life she chose, the sacrifice she made, but that doesn't stop her from loving him. She doubts that anything ever will. She is careful not to let anyone get close to her as she travels through Europe. Very few people know that she still exists and she knows that as long as there is breath in his body he will make sure it remains that way. The only way her past will catch up with her now is if the only person she has ever truly trusted is no longer alive. She shudders at the thought. It doesn't bear thinking about and yet it is a thought that has consumed her thoughts more than once.

In a moment of weakness she allows herself to picture his face and the rush of emotions that race to the surface are so powerful that she feels herself sway. Her fingers reach out and grip the back of the chair and her knuckles turn white as she gives into the forbidden urges and replays some of her most treasured memories. She allows herself a minute, not a second longer, and then locks away the thoughts and feelings she now so carefully avoids. She shakes off the melancholy that follows the memories of a life, and a man, she aches for and crosses over to brew herself a fresh pot of coffee. This is her life now and she will live it without him if it means keeping him safe.

---

She has been in Vienna for almost three weeks when her life as she knows it now is turned on its head. The first glimpse of the familiar face is swallowed by people pushing by her, obscuring her view, and she can almost convince herself that she is seeing things but the rapid thump of her heart and the ice cold trickle of fear in her veins tells her that she knows better than to not trust her instincts. She is out shopping, relishing the human contact as she buys fruit and vegetables from the stall owners who are braving the cold to earn their keep, but suddenly wishes she was somewhere less exposed and vulnerable. She swallows hard and pushes away from the stall, searching left and right until her eyes lock on the striking features of a ghost from her past. The young blonde woman looks more world weary than the fresh faced young woman Ruth left behind but she reasons theirs is a profession that comes with a unique set of challenges and millstones to carry round.

"Ruth," there's so much wrapped up in that one word and she can hear it all; the apology, the wonder, the excitement, but mostly, she can hear the fear. The sound of it feeds her own increasing terror and she searches the face in front of her for a hint of reassurance.

"What's happened to him?" she whispers, brusquely, and suddenly her hand is gripping the arm of the younger woman so tightly that she can feel the blood pulsing in her hand.

"We don't know."

* * *

**This is my first fic so any feedback would be great. The gentler the better! I have an idea of exactly where I want this to go but need to see if people like it or not first :)**

**Thanks for reading**


	2. Chapter 2

**Where Nobody Knows Your Name.**

**Chapter 2.**

**London.**

**4 Days Previously.**

He knocks on the familiar door in front of him and waits until he is called inside. The woman sitting behind the desk looks at him and arches one perfectly shaped eyebrow.

"I thought we'd agreed about the knocking," she says, coolly, as he walks into the room.

He stops mid-stride and thinks about her words for a moment before offering a non-committal shrug and a sheepish smile. "Force of habit," he answers and continues his journey to her desk. He hands over the bundle of files in his arms and waits for her to finish sorting through them before he leaves. His gaze strays from the top of her head to the rest of the office, taking in the fiery red paint, the hard angular couch and the glass windows. The interior has not changed but its occupant certainly has.

"I don't like it any more than you do, Malcolm."

His gaze snaps to hers again and he wonders if she can read minds. "Thinking of redecorating?"

A ghost of a smile filters across her face at his attempt at levity. "That wasn't what I meant," she admits, softly.

"I know," Malcolm responds, seriously, as his eyes hold hers. He knows that she doesn't want to be the one to take Harry's place but he also knows that Ros is the only one they can trust to step aside when they find him. "It's been almost a week..." he trails off, aware that she already knows how long it is since they last saw their boss. He isn't surprised when she averts her gaze abruptly, flicks open the file in front of her and tells him she'll see him in the briefing at three o'clock. Ros doesn't do public displays of emotion. He leaves quietly and wonders, not for the first time, if she realises how similar to Harry she is at times.

---

The three o'clock briefing is a pretty pathetic state of affairs. Lucas is off chasing leads in Russia which leaves only three of them to sit round the vast wooden table that fills the room. In the morning briefings they are joined by officers that have been hastily seconded to Section D by the DG. Their presence is neither abhorred nor welcomed by the remaining staff but discussions with new team members are brief and kept to a minimum. The grunt work is passed to the new team members who are able to keep things ticking over whilst the core team focus their efforts on tracking Harry.

"Any joy with the photo Malcolm?"

Malcolm clears his throat as the image of Harry bound and gagged in the boot of a car pops up on the projector screen. "Dead end so far. Every possible lead the CCTV footage I accessed from then has thrown up has got us nowhere."

"And yet someone took the time to make sure we ended up seeing it. Why?"

"To taunt us," Jo answers, frustrated that they are getting nowhere fast, "to let us know that he was still alive after we'd stopped the blast."

"I think it's more than that," Ros says, "It's to ensure that we _keep_ looking for him."

"Misdirection?"

"Precisely."

"Another attack?"

Ros nods, slowly. "The question is where?"

"And when?" adds, Malcolm.

The room is silent as they each digest the new information and all it means. They are scarcely functioning with the amount of work their search has produced as it is and know that a new terror threat will mean twice, if not three times, the amount of work to do. They are hungry for success and determined to find Harry but there is only so much the three of them can do. As leader it is left to Ros to decide how to play it.

"Contact Lucas and tell him to come back home," she tells Jo, "if we're right about this then he's wasting his time over there."

"What about using some of the officers from Section B?" Jo asks.

"Yes, but I don't want them working on anything to sensitive. Considering they come with the blessing of the DG when no request was made I'm yet to trust any of them with anything more taxing than photocopying."

"There is someone we could use," Malcolm interrupts, quietly.

"Are we going to sit here all day or are you going to tell us?" Ros asks, irritation lacing her words.

Malcolm gives a quick look to the cctv camera, shakes his head and then scribbles something down on a piece of paper. He folds it over before passing it to Ros who looks at him sharply but takes it and reads it any way. She nods once in his direction, refolds the paper and hands it to Jo as she stands and walks out of the meeting room.

---

"Who chose this dump?" she asks, archly, as she makes her way into the safe house.

"Harry," Jo answers, sadly, as she remembers the last time she was in this dingy place, "I think he lived here for a bit once."

"Lovely," she replies, bored, she's never been one for small talk and the two women lapse into silence as they wait for their third team member.

"I wish Malcolm would hurry up," mutters Jo, just as they hear footsteps approach and the door creak open.

"Sorry I've been so long," he apologises.

"Never mind that," Ros cuts across him, "just tells me why we chased half way across London to finish a conversation about staffing levels."

Malcolm clears his throat and looks at Jo and sees the same intrigue on her face as he does on Ros'. "I think I know of someone we can trust to help us."

"You've told us that already."

Jo shoots a look at Ros which plainly means for her to shut up. "Who?"

He swallows and feels rather sick as he replies, "Ruth."

"Ruth? But she..." Jo utters, confusion etched across her features.

"That sly old bastard," Ros says under her breath, a wealth of respect and admiration behind her words. "Where is she?"

"That I don't know," he admits and feels embarrassed to only be able to provide part of the information they need.

Ros thinks for a second and then nods once. "We can't afford not to use someone with Ruth's talents," Jo's eyebrows rise slightly at the compliment from Ros but she wisely keeps her mouth shut.

"I'm fairly certain she'll help us," Malcolm mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

Jo reaches her hand out and touches him on the forearm reassuringly. "Of course she will; it's for Harry."

"Jo, I want you to start looking for Ruth as a priority," Ros interrupts, "The sooner she's on board the sooner we can sort this mess out."

"I'll get started right away."

"This is as good a place as any for you to work from Jo, Malcolm can get you started by telling you everything he knows."

"I, um, can I just..." Malcolm trails off and immediately looks at the floor to avoid Ros' inquisitive gaze.

"Spit it out, Malcolm."

He takes a breath and then looks up at the two women. "I promised Harry that I'd never tell _anyone_ about Ruth still being alive..."

"I'll be discreet, Malcolm, I swear," Jo reassures him, kindly.

"And I'll protect you from Harry when he finds out," Ros deadpans as she heads for the door.

* * *

**Thank you for the kind reviews for chapter 1. It really gave me courage to keep going. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Where Nobody Knows Your Name.**

**Chapter 3.**

**Vienna**.

"Is there somewhere we can go?" Jo prompts keen for them not to have a discussion like this in a public place. She's not sure how Ruth is going to react to everything she has to tell her and she respects her too much to let her fall apart in the middle of the street. Her words seem to give the other woman something to focus on and she relaxes her grip on Jo's arm and mumbles an apology.

"My flat," she announces and immediately turns and walks in the opposite direction. She's not naive enough to think that Jo doesn't know how to get there but the blonde spook eases next to her and they walk the short distance in silence.

"Nice place," she lies as Ruth lets them both in. The flat is Spartan and devoid of anything that might reflect the true personality of the person that currently resides there.

Ruth shrugs, unconcerned. "It's functional." It is probably the highest compliment that can be paid to their surroundings. "I'll make some coffee," she says, spotting Jo rubbing her hands together against the cold that has numbed them, "then we can talk."

She can feel Jo watching her as she moves about the kitchen and is surprised at how uncomfortable she feels to have someone privy to the life she leads. Whilst she is desperate to know about Harry, and to make sure he is safe, there is a part of her that wishes Jo hadn't found her. She is shrewd enough to know that whatever Jo has to tell her will be painful to listen to and she's not sure she's prepared to deal with the fallout from it. Her hands are shaking, she notices, as she carries the pot of steaming hot coffee and some cups to the table where Jo has positioned herself.

"Thanks," she smiles, briefly, as she reaches out for the freshly poured coffee. The strong aroma of it wafts under her nose as she takes a tentative sip and watches Ruth over the rim of the cup. The woman sat opposite her is so familiar to her and yet so distant and different that it makes Jo wonder if being here is the right thing after all.

"I think you'd better tell me what's going on, Jo."

"We need your help," she states, simply, and tries to suppress the inappropriate laughter that has suddenly bubbled inside her from nowhere. "I don't know where to start, Ruth, there's so much you don't know..." she trails off and digs around in her pocket until she pulls a battered packet of Malboro Lights from her pocket.

"Tell me about Harry," Ruth orders, quietly, as she gets up to find something to use as an ashtray.

"He was abducted by the FSB."

Ruth looks startled. "How? Why?"

"How did they get to him, you mean?" Ruth nods, fingers clenched around her rapidly cooling cup of coffee. "He'd gone to them in a last ditch effort to stop a nuclear bomb being detonated by a sleeper agent."

"He gave himself to them?"

"Yes and, to his credit, it worked. The FSB agents were ordered to help us find their sleeper agent and there was just enough time for Connie to neutralise the nuclear element before the bomb detonated."

"Connie?" Ruth queries hungry for all of the facts.

"Our pet mole," Jo clarifies in-between drags on her cigarette, "and former intelligence analyst. Harry knew her way back when and brought her on board as someone he could trust." She scoffs at the thought of Connie being trusted and fights off an overwhelming urge to smash her fist into the table as the memories of what that woman did rise to the surface.

"She was a double agent all along?"

"Yes and a good one, as it turns out. No one suspected her until it was too late and by then she'd got Harry arrested, murdered Ben and almost helped bring the country to ruin."

"They thought he was the mole," she states and the shock is plain to see on Ruth's face as her mind races through all that the idea implies.

Jo suddenly reaches out a hand to cover Ruth's. "He's a tough cookie, the old man," she offers, by way of support and is pleased to note that the other woman takes some comfort from her words. She reclaims her hand and reaches for another cigarette as Ruth uses the coffee pot to distract herself from her thoughts. She refills Jo's cup and nods, briefly, to signal that she is ready to hear more. "Connie died disarming the bomb and Harry never came back from his meeting with the FSB. We've been searching for him ever since but keep hitting dead ends."

Ruth steels herself to ask the question that has been on the tip of her tongue since she first set eyes on Jo. "Is he still alive?"

"We're almost certain he is," Jo answers and reaches inside her coat pocket for a copy of the photograph they were sent, "this was sent to us, anonymously, after Harry disappeared. Someone wants us to keep looking for him."

Ruth looks at the photograph and feels her stomach lurch. She feels sick to her stomach as an almighty rage bursts through her being. How dare they do this to him? Bound and gagged and thrown in the boot of a car as if he is worthless. Nothing. She feels violated on his behalf and an adrenaline surges through her blood that she hasn't felt in some time. "What do you want me to do?"

Jo smiles at her. "Come home."

* * *

**Thank you for all the encouragement so far. It has really helped me to focus on the story. This chapter was getting far too long so I have had to cut it in to two, apologies for the shortness of this chapter.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Where Nobody Knows Your Name.**

**Chapter 4.**

"Home," Ruth echoes, quietly, and it is abundantly clear that this is not the scenario she has envisaged for her return. She thinks of the country, the people, the _life_ she left behind and, for a moment, is sorely tempted to grab at it with both hands but she knows that returning from the grave won't be a simple affair. She's not naive enough to think that she can just waltz back into Ruth Evershed's shoes; it's not just a sense a self-preservation that holds her back, it's the knowledge that her return will hurt those who once grieved for her all over again. She swallows and meets Jo's gaze, "I'm not sure I can, I don't even-"

"No-one would know you were there," Jo cuts her off, sensing the rising panic that is starting to take hold of Ruth.

"No-one was supposed to know I was here but you managed to find me," she shoots back, visibly rattled.

"We need you, Ruth," Jo responds, softly, choosing to ignore the remark. She knows she could easily manipulate her into agreeing but respects her too much to sink to that level. She can tell it is the right thing to say and remains silent as Ruth takes a few calming breaths and then nods her head slowly.

"When should we leave?"

The blonde checks her watch and then reaches for her drink. "We have a few hours."

---

"You haven't told me everything," Ruth states, casually, as she wanders back into the living room carrying a small, nondescript holdall.

"No," she whispers and suddenly wishes she could be somewhere, anywhere, else. "It won't be easy to hear."

"Someone died," Ruth states, instinctively, as she sits on the angular sofa that covers the back wall of the apartment.

Jo reaches for her cigarettes and lights up again, crushing the now empty packet in her hand as she nods her affirmation. "Yes," she breathes and the word tumbles out between a cloud of blue smoke.

"Adam?" Ruth asks, voice shaking, as her fingers fiddle with the handle of her bag.

"And Zaf." Jo cringes at the sudden grief etched across Ruth's face and wishes she hadn't been the one to burden her with the knowledge of their deaths. She knows there will be questions, knowing Ruth they will be insightful and endless, but she's not sure if she has the strength to face them. From experience, and more than a few sleepless nights, she knows that, in their world, there are always more questions than answers. She grinds the remainder of her cigarette into the makeshift ashtray and moves to sit beside a silently weeping Ruth. "I miss them so much," she confesses and, for the first time in months, she gives in to the tears she can feel welling in her eyes. Ruth's hand is surprisingly warm as it rests on top of hers and together they sit and cry for the men they have known and lost.

"Will you tell me what happened?" Ruth asks, eventually, and Jo gives a weary nod. Her voice is soft and melodic as she describes the events surrounding first Zaf's and then Adam's demise. It feels strangely cathartic to be discussing it with someone who wasn't present but who knows both men just as intimately as she did. There are fresh tears and shuddering sobs as she recounts her sorry tale but Ruth doesn't interrupt her and she's grateful for that. When she finally runs out of words they sit in contemplative silence, holding hands and taking comfort from one another.

"I need a drink," Ruth utters as she reaches up with her free hand to scrub her face.

"Do you have any vodka?"

"Somewhere," she mutters and is momentarily distracted from her grief as she goes in search of it. She is back in less than three minutes, clutching 2 tumblers with a generous splash of vodka in each. "It's not cold I'm afraid," she says and immediately feels absurd.

Jo smiles, weakly, and takes the proffered glass. "That's ok."

They chink their glasses together and silently toast the fallen Spooks. The harsh alcohol burns at the back of Ruth's throat as she takes a gulp of the clear fluid and she uses her vantage point to really look at Jo. For the first time she notices the large bags under her eyes and the slight shake of her hand as her glass is raised to her lips again.

"What happened to you Jo?" she asks, quietly, and the startled blue eyes that meet hers reveals that more horrors are yet to be unearthed.

"I lost my innocence," Jo says, almost casually, but Ruth isn't fooled so easily. She can see the pain in the grimace Jo is now sporting and there is a definite tremor in her hands as she pulls out a fresh pack of cigarettes and peels the cellophane open.

"Picked up a new habit too, I see."

The unlit cigarette twitches between her fingers as she pauses her attempt to light it. "An old one actually," she clarifies, "recently resurrected." She lights up and squints at Ruth through the haze of smoke, "Are you ready?"

_No_ is the thought that immediately rushes to the surface. She's not ready for this at all but the thing that makes her nod her head and whisper 'Yes' is the thought that she's not ready for there to be a world without Harry in it.

* * *

**Sorry for the delay in posting. There is more to come and hopefully sooner rather than later. Thanks again for the reviews they really are helping me to keep going with it.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Where Nobody Knows Your Name.**

**Chapter 5.**

Her first thought as she steps back onto British soil is that it still smells the same. She feels faintly ridiculous at the surge of emotion that erupts within her as she breathes deeply and takes in the sounds and smells that she had thought she had left behind for good.

"You ok?" she hears Jo ask and her eyes pop open to find the blonde spook watching her intently. Ruth nods and gives a tight smile in reply; too busy fighting with her emotions to give a proper answer. She feels more nauseous than anything, the knot of worry and fear that has consumed her for their entire journey seems to have tripled since she stepped off the boat and onto the dockside. "Sure?"

She manages a single shake of her head before she is sick on the floor. Respectfully, Jo looks away and gives her a few moments to compose herself. When she turns back Ruth is wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and staring off into the distance at a deserted part of the docks. "Sorry," she murmurs, embarrassed.

"It's only natural, Ruth," Jo responds gently and offers her a small smile. "We should get moving though," she adds, consulting her watch, "thankfully, it's not too far."

---

She follows Jo into the shabby, rundown building they have arrived at and is relieved to be inside and away from any prying eyes. She knows they haven't been followed, both women took every precaution they could, but she is still unsettled from the brisk walk through the darkened London streets.

"It's not much but it's definitely off the radar," Jo tells her as they both ease inside the run down old flat.

"I don't need much," Ruth reminds her and they share a look.

"Good job we didn't roll the red carpet out then," a cool, slightly sarcastic voice says drolly.

"Ros," Ruth greets the other woman with a small tight smile and marvels at how this woman can instantly make her feel two inches tall. She watches with interest as the two blonde Spooks share a series of looks before Jo finally turns and leaves the room without another word.

"I'll spare the pleasantries, Ruth, we both know why you're here and that there isn't much time."

Ruth nods her agreement. "I need a secure connection to the systems and paper copies of all the files you can manage."

"Already done," Ros says and points out a small workspace that has been hastily assembled for her.

"I'll get to work then," she murmurs, fingers loosening the buttons of her coat as she moves across the room.

Ros watches her, briefly, and then pulls a mobile phone out of her coat pocket. She places it on the table beside Ruth, "Call me if you find anything."

---

Hours later she lifts her head from one of the files in front of her and rolls her neck trying to ease some of the tension that has settled there. She rubs her face wearily and wonders if there will be any coffee in the kitchen. She is in desperate need of a caffeine boost before she can carry on with her painstaking trawl through the files she was left. She gets up and heads for the kitchen pleasantly surprised to find that there is some half decent coffee and some pastries hidden away in there. Her stomach gives a loud growl at the sign of food and she snacks on one of the pastries as the coffee brews. She is hungrier than she had realised and tries to think about the last time she had something substantial to eat. She can't remember which probably means it was sometime before Jo appeared and she berates herself for not taking better care of herself. A distant memory of Adam on the Grid ordering food and reminding people to eat surfaces and she gives a sad little smile as she dutifully picks up another pastry and her cup of coffee.

She allows herself a small, ten minute, break from the monotony of her work. Ideally, she'd love to plough straight on but she knows that tiredness can make her sloppy and now, more than ever, she's aware of the life that hangs in the balance if she misses something crucial.

---

It's cold where he is, that much he knows for certain. He doesn't know why, or how, but he knows that he's still in England somewhere. Up North he guesses, but it's just that, an educated guess. There are two men keeping him prisoner in this house, both younger, both fitter and stronger. Both Russian. He has a bust lip, most likely a black eye and severely bruised ribs from his one and only attempt at fighting his way out. It hadn't taken them long to subdue him, he was already weak with hunger and his limbs were barely co-ordinated after being trussed up for so long in the boot of the car but he'd had to try. They are certainly more wary of him since then. They feed him once a day but he doesn't eat more than is necessary for his survival, he has no real taste for it but knows they will force him to if he refuses. He tries not to think about dying as much as he can, he knows it won't be here, in the cold, damp house as much as he knows it won't be the two 'guards' that kill him. He knows there is a purpose to his captivity, that there is a reason they are bothering to keep him alive and he knows that he will figure it out in the end. The only problem is that he fears it will be too late by then.

* * *

**Sincere apologies for the delay, unfortunately there was a family tragedy and it kept me away. I hope to post the rest a lot more regularly now. **

**Feedback is always well received. **


	6. Chapter 6

**Where Nobody Knows Your Name.**

**Chapter 6.**

**London.**

"What have we got?" Ros asks as she swoops into the meeting room.

"GCHQ intercepted chatter concerning the parade for returning troops from Afghanistan," Jo offers as she looks up from the file in front of her.

"Link that in with the fact that bigwigs from the US embassy will be attending to present the US Medal of Honour to one of the returning hero's," picked up, Lucas, "and I think we've found our ball game.

"When's the parade?"

"2 o'clock tomorrow afternoon."

She looks at her watch and makes a quick mental calculation. "Then we have fifteen hours to put a stop to it and find Harry."

"We've had worse odds," Lucas says lightly and Ros' lips twitch in response.

---

**Manchester.**

"Coffee?" asks Ivor Barsukov as he rubs his hands together in an attempt to get warm. His accomplice bangs the small heater in the run down flat and swears fluently at it when it still refuses to work. "Andre, it doesn't fucking work. Stop messing with it."

The younger of the two men stands and kicks it. "Piece of shit."

"I'll make a drink."

"We're out of coffee," Andre replies, sullenly.

"Then go and get some," his colleague tells him, patience wearing thin. The two men have been stuck in the small flat together for too long now, tempers are beginning to flare and they are starting to loathe the sight of one another. Ivor watches as Andre pulls a face and mumbles curses under his breath like a brooding teenager. "And don't be long," he warns, angrily, "Viktor will be here soon."

Andre nods once and then marches out of the door slamming it loudly behind him. His mood improves little as he walks through the sparse streets littered with rubbish and smashed glass. He passes the shop closest to the safe house and keeps walking, taking the opportunity for some time to himself. As her approaches the minimart he steps left, to avoid a small gaggle of youths in hooded tops who are spitting on the floor in between cursing and shouting at a gang of scarcely dressed girls across the road, and bumps into one of two men who are stood together just outside the corner doorway.

"Sorry," he mumbles, his accent clearly visible as he speaks.

"Fucking should be!" snarls one of the men as he pushes Andre in his back. "You fucking Polish bastards need to learn some respect."

"It was accident," he says, softly, trying to placate his aggressors, "and I am Russian."

"Same fucking difference," the first man replies, shoving Andre in the chest and then punching him in the face.

A brawl quickly breaks out and the teenagers provide a soundtrack of jeering and cursing which is only silenced as a siren wails close by. Most of the crowd disperses before the officers are out of their car but they are able to catch Andre and one of his opponents before they can flee. The handcuffs are brought out and, quick as a flash, both men are subdued and bundled into the back of a van which heads for the nearest Police Station.

---

Harry pays little interest in the noises that come from the flat as his remaining captor stamps his feet and wanders around the small dwelling but his ears prick up as he hears a car stop directly outside. The windows in his room have been blacked out and so he can only rely on shuffling closer to the door and straining to hear what he can as the front door is opened and someone is admitted. The voices draw closer and closer and a cold shiver goes down his spine as the voices are finally clear enough for him to recognise. He presses himself close to the door and listens for as long as he dares hoping to understand something, anything, of what is being said but his Russian is far too basic to be able to comprehend it at all. He moves back to the far side of the room and sits with his back against the wall, watching, waiting for the door to open.

He doesn't have to wait long.

"Harry." He is greeted with a smile, as if the two men are old friends, not aggressor and captive.

"Viktor." He acknowledges his visitor without any warmth and stares expectantly at him.

"We must talk, yes?"

"I suppose we must."

Viktor Sarkisian laughs briefly and crosses to sit on the end of the bed. His henchman hovers by the open door, eyes glued to Harry, watching for any sign of attack. He hesitates, briefly, as Sarkisian dismisses him and tells him to start getting ready to leave the flat for good. "He does not trust you," Viktor says, conspirationally, "he thinks you will try and escape again."

Harry says nothing, he knows the game Sarkisian is playing and refuses to join in.

"Come now, Harry, there is no need to look so glum," he says with a twisted smile, "the end is almost here."

"Are you at least going to tell me why?" Some might beg for freedom or mercy at this point but not Harry. He has his dignity and nothing or no one will take that away from him, no matter what they do to him.

Viktor appraises him, silently, and then gives a curt nod. "I was 17 when I was chosen to serve my country," he begins, softly, lost in his memories, "so young, too young perhaps, but I had a lot to offer. He could see it in me, he chose me, hand reared me and made me into the man I am." He pauses and looks directly at Harry, "Do you know who I'm talking about?"

"Kachimov," Harry answers, quietly, understanding suddenly dawning on him.

"He was like a father to me." Sarkisian admits holding Harry's gaze, "and you killed him."

"Yes," he answers, simply, unwavering.

"So now I will kill you."


End file.
